The Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Fyodor Dostoyevsky

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СКАЧАТЬ and with such intensity that her eyes seemed to blaze at me. “She is miserable again,” I thought, “but she doesn’t want to speak to me about it.”

      In answer to her question about my work I told her the whole story of Elena in full detail. She was extremely interested and even impressed by my story.

      “Good heavens! And you could leave her alone, and ill! she cried.

      I told her that I had meant not to come at all that day, but that I was afraid she would be angry with me and that she might be in need of me.

      “Need,” she said to herself as though pondering. “Perhaps I do need you, Vanya, but that had better be another time. Have you been to my people?”

      I told her.

      “Yes, God only knows how my father will take the news. Though what is there to take after all? …”

      “What is there to take?” I repeated. “A transformation like this!”

      “I don’t know about that…. Where can he have gone again? That time before, you thought he was coming to me. Do you know, Vanya, come to me tomorrow if you can. I shall tell you something perhaps…. Only I’m ashamed to trouble you. But now you’d better be going home to your visitor. I expect it’s two hours since you came out.”

      “Yes, it is. Goodbye, Natasha. Well, and how was Alyosha with you to-day?”

      “Oh, Alyosha. All right…. I wonder at your curiosity.”

      “Goodbye for now, my friend.”

      “Goodbye.”

      She gave me her hand carelessly and turned away from my last, farewell look. I went out somewhat surprised. “She has plenty to think about, though,” I thought. “It’s no jesting matter. Tomorrow she’ll be the first to tell me all about it.”

      I went home sorrowful, and was dreadfully shocked as soon as I opened the door. By now it was dark. I could make out Elena sitting on the sofa, her head sunk on her breast as though plunged in deep thought. She didn’t even glance at me. She seemed lost to everything. I went up to her. She was muttering something to herself. “Isn’t she delirious?” I thought.

      “Elena, my, dear, what’s the matter?” I asked, sitting beside her and putting my arm round her.

      “I want to go away…. I’d better go to her,” she said, not raising her head to look at me.

      “Where? To whom?” I asked in surprise.

      “To her. To Bubnov. She’s always saying I owe her a lot of money; that she buried mother at her expense. I don’t want her to say nasty things about mother. I want to work there, and pay her back…. Then I’ll go away of myself. But now I’m going back to her.”

      “Be quiet, Elena, you can’t go back to her,” I said. “She’ll torment you. She’ll ruin you.”

      “Let her ruin me, let her torment me.” Elena caught up the words feverishly. “I’m not the first. Others better than I are tormented. A beggar woman in the street told me that. I’m poor and I want to be poor. I’ll be poor all my life. My mother told me so when she was dying. I’ll work…. I don’t want to wear this dress….”

      “I’ll buy you another one tomorrow. And I’ll get you your books. You shall stay with me. I won’t send you away to any — unless you want to go. Don’t worry yourself.”

      “I’ll be a work-girl!”

      “Very well, very well. Only be quiet. Lie down. Go to sleep.”

      But the poor child burst into tears. By degrees her tears passed to sobs. I didn’t know what to do with her. I offered her water and moistened her temples and her head. At last she sank on the sofa completely exhausted, and she was overcome by feverish shivering. I wrapped her up in what I could find and she fell into an uneasy sleep, starting and waking up continually. Though I had not walked far that day, I was awfully tired, and I decided to go to bed as early as possible. Tormenting doubts swarmed in my brain. I foresaw that I should have a lot of trouble with this child. But my chief anxiety was about Natasha and her troubles. Altogether, as I remember now, I have rarely been in a mood of such deep dejection as when I fell asleep that unhappy night.

      CHAPTER IX

       Table of Contents

       I WAKED UP LATE, at ten o’clock in the morning, feeling ill. I felt giddy and my head was aching; I glanced towards Elena’s bed. The bed was empty. At the same moment from my little room on the right sounds reached me as though someone were sweeping with a broom. I went to look. Elena had a broom in her hand and holding up her smart dress which she had kept on ever since at evening, she was sweeping the floor. The wood for the stove was piled up in the corner. The table had been scrubbed, the kettle had been cleaned. In a word, Elena was doing the housework.

      “Listen, Elena,” I cried. “Who wants you to sweep the floor? I don’t wish it, you’re ill. Have you come here to be a drudge for me?”

      “Who is going to sweep the floor here?” she answered, drawing herself up and looking straight at me. “I’m not ill now.”

      “But I didn’t take you to make you work, Elena. You seem to be afraid I shall scold you like Mme. Bubnov for living with me for nothing. And where did you get that horrid broom? I had no broom,” I added, looking at her in wonder.

      “It’s my broom. I brought it here myself, I used to sweep the floor here for grandfather too. And the broom’s been lying here ever since under the stove.”

      I went back to the other room musing. Perhaps I may have been in error, but it seemed to me that she felt oppressed by my hospitality and that she wanted in every possible way to show me that she was doing something for her living.

      “What an embittered character, if so,” I thought. Two minutes later she came in and without a word sat down on the sofa in the same place as yesterday, looking inquisitively at me. Meanwhile I boiled the kettle, made the tea, poured out a cup for her and handed it her with a slice of white bread. She took it in silence and without opposition. She had had nothing for twenty-four hours.

      “See, you’ve dirtied your pretty dress with that broom,” I said, noticing a streak of dirt on her skirt.

      She looked down and suddenly, to my intense astonishment, she put down her cup, and, apparently calm and composed, she picked up a breadth of the muslin skirt in both hands and with one rip tore it from top to bottom. When she had done this she raised her stubborn, flashing eyes to me in silence. Her face was pale.

      “What are you about, Elena?” I cried, feeling sure the child was mad.

      “It’s a horrid dress,” she cried, almost gasping with excitement. “Why do you say it’s a nice dress? I don’t want to wear it!” she cried suddenly, jumping up from her place. “I’ll tear it up. I didn’t ask her to dress me up. She did it herself, by force. I’ve torn one dress already. I’ll tear this one! I’ll tear it, I’ll tear it, I’ll tear it!…”

      And she fell upon СКАЧАТЬ